The halls of the Woodland Realm whispered with silence, the moonlight pouring in soft ribbons through the carved archways and delicate glass of your wing — the Queen’s wing, as they called it now.

It had been nearly a year since you had been given to Thranduil as a symbol of peace — a silent daughter, sent from a once-hostile kingdom in hopes of weaving a future with words instead of war.

For four long months, the King had not spoken to you.

You’d dined in silence, walked the marble paths in silence, existed in silence. But through it all, Legolas had been there. With patient smiles and stories of the woods, soft laughter and lingering glances, he had become your only warmth in a world made of polished stone and cold gold.

You still remembered the way his hand brushed yours by the river, how he taught you to braid your hair like the Silvan elves, how your eyes found each other across crowded feasts when you both felt like you didn’t belong.

You had loved him quietly.

And then came the day Thranduil finally spoke. Not with kindness. Not with questions.

With a proposal.

He stood like a statue of ancient ice, adorned in silver and shadow, and declared his intentions as though it were a royal decree: you would become his queen.

You had tried to find the words — to tell him you loved someone else, his own son. But the way his voice filled the hall, commanding and resolute, left no room for your truth.

So you remained silent. Again.

And still, Legolas came to you — hidden in moonlight and footsteps softer than the breeze. You met in gardens and shadowed stairwells, in library corners and over starlit balconies. A prince and a future queen. A secret carved in golden threads.

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The chamber was quiet, wrapped in a hush only the late hour could bring. Silver moonlight streamed through the tall glass panes, casting pale ribbons across the floor and over your bed. You lay still beneath the sheer canopy, your nightgown soft against your skin, breaths slow, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

Then— A soft creak.

Your eyes fluttered open.

The heavy door eased inward, just enough to let in a sliver of light from the hallway. And there he was.

Legolas.

Barefoot and quiet as snowfall, he stepped inside, his tunic loose at the collar, hair falling over one shoulder like molten starlight. He shut the door behind him with care, eyes never leaving you.

“Forgive me, meleth-nîn… I couldn’t bear another night without you.”